Before going up, he called from a lobby payphone, not trusting his cell, though he was only making dining reservations. His next call, to Margaret’s private line, was answered by Pierette.
Over-jocular: “Is her ladyship anywhere about the palace grounds?”
“I suspect she’s still in the House, Arthur.”
“Well, uh, if you speak to her, tell her I … I love her.”
“She doesn’t know that?”
He cleared his throat. “And that I’ve made reservations for the Cezanne at seven-thirty.”
“Some kind of anniversary?”
“No, I don’t have any particular excuse. Reason, I mean.”
“Just that you love her. That’s sweet.”
“One thing more, Pierette. Alta International was vying with several other players to develop Bhashyistan’s oil and gas. Who were they? After Alta, who had the best inside chance?”
“On it already.”
In the elevator, he mused: Erzhan had seen his captors — the two that had exited the car were Caucasian, according to Zandoo — so why would they not have silenced him permanently to avoid being exposed? Why render him to a secret foreign facility? To torture a false confession from him?
He wondered if even a multinational oil company, despite its vast riches, could engineer what was known in the trade as an extraordinary rendition, torture by proxy. Surely some government agency had to be involved. Only one superpower had proven expertise, though others might easily have learned by example.
From 1 °C, “Water Music”: a composition he disliked for its easy familiarity, Handel’s fawning curtsey to the first King George. Through the vents, a cry: “Damn it, Sally, you tied the knots too tight!”
He checked his phone messages. Wentworth Chance again. He’d been interviewing Arthur’s old cronies, digging up discreditable episodes from a past that would have made even Bacchus blush. Now he wanted to spend a few days prying around Garibaldi, that cesspool of gossip. That had Arthur quaking, wondering how to dissuade him.
He stepped into the shower, turned the water on hot and full, looked down to see his feet in his now-soggy slippers.
Candlelight and soft harmonics from a jazz trio. Cezanne and Pissarro prints on the walls. An attentive waiter who had the courtesy not to announce his name. For Margaret, a vintage Bordeaux; for Arthur, Perrier and cranberry juice. The buttered clams were probably delicious, but he couldn’t taste them.
“How romantic, darling,” she’d said as he escorted her in. “I love surprises.”
He shuddered, buried her untimely utterance beneath inquiries about her take on fast-moving events. Half an hour later, she was still holding forth, fretting that the government’s climate change measures, skimpy as they were, had been forgotten in the midst of crisis.
“They’re planning an early Christmas break so they can run and hide from everyone. That’s if they’re still in power after Thursday. I need to get back to the riding — I’ve been neglecting it, I have an endless list of people to see. I’ll be running around like a hyperactive squirrel.”
And maybe never set foot on Garibaldi? No, Beauchamp, don’t even think it, screw up your courage, man. But still he stalled, playing a game with Margaret: who among the diners was the spy from CSIS? The bald gentleman eating alone. The sad-looking woman at the bar. The impatient boor claiming he had a reservation.
A deep breath. “Margaret, I have a small event to relate. A ridiculous event. I’ve been having trouble putting it in words. For that, only that, I haven’t been fair to you.”
“Do tell.” Her smile, poorly suppressed, confused him.
He took a long swallow to force open his gullet. “Matters were not what they seemed, and may God smite me on the spot if I’m not entirely frank about that.” The unswerving gaze of her electric silver eyes. “While we’ve been in Ottawa, Savannah has, uh, often retreated to the bed upstairs when matters between her and Zack … you know how they squabble. And, of course, she has sleepwalking difficulties.”
In an attempt to spread his hands in a helpless, shrugging motion, he knocked his glass over, spilling its residue. An ice cube skittered off the tablecloth. The waiter was on the spot with a cloth. “May I replenish that, sir?”
“Ah, no, not right now. Thank you, no.”
Margaret reached out to press his shaking hand, and he was so jittery that he almost pulled it away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t let you go on like this, Arthur, it’s cruel. Savannah phoned me on Friday to tell me.” A chiding expression, as from a tutor to a truant child.
Arthur was nonplussed, speechless. Friday? Five days ago?
“You woke her up. As you got out of bed and left with Stoney.”
It took a while to digest this. He sagged finally, weakened by the tension. “He’s … well, Stoney …”
“Yes, he’s probably outdone himself, he must be hoarse by now. Come on, Arthur, people may want to believe the worst, but surely no one does. I mean, be serious. Virtuous Arthur, a faithless lecher? Making a move on a woman half his age? You, Arthur?”
She smiled, but Arthur felt the bite of sarcasm, of mockery, her way of punishing him for his tardy guilty plea. Sneaking its way into his mix of emotions was a smidgen of resentment. Virtuous? Stuffily incapable of dishonour, was that her implication? But he managed a weak smile, and in truth felt much relieved — even as Margaret stifled laughter.
18
At eight o’clock, bright and early, Charley Thiessen strolled through the parliamentary corridors to the dining room. He was in pretty good spirits despite everything, despite the Bhashyistan shambles, despite the sudden death of his leader and mentor, despite the pall that had settled over everyone.
That was because Clara Gracey had phoned him the night before. She’d congratulated him for the smooth way he’d handled himself in Question Period, especially in putting the Emergencies Act to rest. Then she apologized for “needing” him, practically begging him to stay in cabinet and keep his two portfolios, Justice and Security. He’d told her she could always count on Charley Thiessen. Loyalty breeds loyalty, that’s his first principle.
Charley Thiessen, attorney general, minister of justice, minister of public security — he’d come a long way from family law, foreclosures, and fender benders in Flesherton, Ontario. Who would have thought? His mom, maybe, who’d never stopped believing.
He was a big, broad-backed, hearty guy, and let’s face it, handsome — his mother said he looked just like John Wayne, he had the same confident way of moseying, the same easy manners. A man of the people, that’s why Charley had risen above the others, the corporate lawyers in their Bay Street suites, the slick Q.C.s wearing silk and driving Porsches. Snobs who lacked the common touch, who’d never taken the temperature of the times in a local bar, barbershop, or bingo hall.
That’s why he’d bonded with Huck — they were made of the same stuff, they’d risen the hard and honest way, up from Main Street, slapping backs, getting out to all the weddings, christenings, funerals even if sick or hungover. He felt a pang remembering Huck, the many nights they’d spent drinking and laughing and scheming. He’d spent half of Tuesday with Huck’s family, and wept with them.
As he strolled into the Parliamentary Dining Room, it was, “Morning, Charley, you’re looking exceedingly well.” This from the manager. He was always Charley, never Mr. Thiessen, he’d insisted on it. More greetings from M.P.s and senators, Charley, Charley, he gives you no blarney. One of his campaign slogans.
Here, hunching over a tablecloth with rolls and coffee, was E.K. Boyes. Thiessen would normally steer away from him — the PMO head honcho wasn’t the liveliest of company — but Guy DuWallup was with him, Canada’s new senator, who’d taken a hero’s bullet for the boss.
“Morning, Charley,” they chimed.
“You boys look clapped out — you’d think there was a crisis going on.” He chuckled to let them know he was joking, and sat, signalled the waiter for a coffee.